


In The Garden of the Prophet

by cogito_ergo_amo



Category: BioShock Infinite, Lutecest - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Light restraint, Semi-Public Sex, quantum incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 03:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2051283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cogito_ergo_amo/pseuds/cogito_ergo_amo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because nothing is more tedious than dinner with the Comstocks. </p><p>PWP</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Garden of the Prophet

They had perfected their dinner-party relay system after Robert had been bored almost to tears at the first “budgeting banquet” he had been forced to attend. They would each fold their hands such that the other was able to read the twitches of their thumb spelling out messages in morse code. So great was their delight in this endeavour that they practised for hours, at home and at work, until it became second nature whenever they wished to communicate discreetly amongst company. It had become a matter of pride for them to be able to hold a conversation undetected while engaged in two completely unrelated discussions from opposite sides of a room. Sitting next to each other at a dining table with only half a dozen or so of Columbia’s elite therefore presented little challenge. They maintained polite and breezy conversations with their fellow guests while holding an entirely different discourse in secret.

"Has Fink always been this insufferable?"

"Unfortunately, yes. Be grateful you’re not the one he’s attempting to play footsie with."

"He is still married, is he not?"

"Certainly, but I doubt his wife’s presence would make much difference since he's put away a whole bottle of wine already."

"Oh god. He’s removed his shoe."

"I could swing for him"

"I’d much rather you didn’t"

"I bet that moustache wouldn’t do much to soften the blow"

"Nor would the brief satisfaction of violence soften the blow of losing our tithe-exempt status"

"Going to have to excuse myself. Be sure to follow."

Robert made to lift his glass of mediocre Chablis but instead knocked it over. Rosalind noted with amusement that all but a few drops missed her brother entirely, spilling instead on the opulent carpet that she suspected had cost more than funding their laboratory for an entire year. She feigned social embarrassment as her brother leapt to his feet.

"Robert, you ham-fisted oaf! Oh, you’ve spilled it all over me too!" Her gown was perfectly dry, but a dark enough shade that nobody could have called her out on it at a glance.

"Oh gosh, I’m so dreadfully sorry, we really should get you dried off, you wouldn’t want that to stain." He held out his hand to Rosalind as she rose from her seat.

They were barely beyond the threshold to the dining room when he grabbed her wrist, leading her sharply around corners and down corridors, far beyond the reach of nosy serving staff or the sycophantic laughter of Comstock’s dinner party guests.

By the time they reached Comstock’s private garden Rosalind could see that Robert’s anger had settled into something baser, something direct, something only she could assuage. She felt the deep warmth of wanting between her legs, radiating upwards through her viscera to her heart and spreading along her limbs leaving goosebumps in its wake. It was a state usually reserved for the privacy of their own home, in front of the fire after a vexing day at work, or on a long and lazy Sunday morning as a preferable alternative to dressing or leaving the house, sometimes even in the kitchen when the mood took one or both of them unexpectedly while preparing dinner. The feeling would sometimes flare up in unexpected situations but never had they sought to fulfil their desires anywhere lacking in privacy.

They both glanced appraisingly around the garden, ornate metal fences ten feet high surrounded dense, perfectly trimmed topiary. The path on which they stood led to a little cobblestone bridge across the pond then on to the magnificent water feature of a weeping Angel of Columbia. The soft footlights of the fountain and diffuse glow from the glass door behind them provided a dim, twilight illumination allowing them to see the stars and crescent moon with clarity.

"Rosalind…"

She knew from his tone what was coming next. She leaned back against the garden wall, a trellis thick with sweetly-scented honeysuckle cushioning her against the cold brick as Robert kissed her. She reciprocated his forceful embrace, wrapping her arms around his back to pull him flush against her. She felt his blatant arousal straining against his trousers and pressing into her abdomen. She rocked her hips slightly and smirked at his ragged moan in response, a sound she echoed as his teeth pinched her neck, giving way to kisses up to her ear. “I’m going to fuck you, here, in the garden of the Prophet” he murmured “but first, I’m going to taste you.” She wriggled her hips against him once more, impatient and yearning.

Robert knelt in front of her, using one hand to grope and stroke yearningly along the curves of her leg, the other to lift the hem of her gown and that of her long underslip. He looked up at her with a knowing smile as he reached the top of her stockings.

"No drawers?"

"Not with the line of this dress, no. But brother do you really think this is wise? Our absence won’t go unchecked for- ah!" His thumb passed with excruciating lightness across her outer lips and she pushed her hips towards him.

"You’re right, this isn’t wise at all" he nudged at the dainty nub of flesh that covered her clit with his nose and ran his tongue along the length of her vulva, eliciting a shuddering moan "If the wisdom of what I’m about to do concerns you, I can always stop-"

"Don’t you bloody dare!"

Robert allowed himself a satisfied smirk. “Now, if you would kindly hold up your skirts, I feel we would benefit greatly from both of my hands being free.”

She obliged and gasped as Robert slid his hands behind her, grasping tightly at her buttocks and nuzzling hungrily at her sex. He inhaled deeply and sighed at her luscious, familiar scent. His tongue began to stroke, firm yet gentle, between her lips as he teased her entrance with a fingertip. Robert slipped a shoulder underneath one of her legs, taking some of her weight and elevating her slightly.

"Brother, please." He felt one of her hands entwining firmly with his hair, pushing him further into her. He encircled her clitoris with his lips, alternating the flickers of his tongue, soft then swift then slow then forceful. Her ragged moans and the slickness of her cunt were instruction enough as he slid one, then two, then three fingers inside of her. He worked his hand in tune with her vocalisations, increasing with speed and strength as her breathing quickened. Her voice rose into soprano cadences and Robert felt her fingers slip out of his hair. He didn’t need to look up to know she was biting the knuckle of her index finger, something she often did involuntarily whenever she was approaching orgasm. "Oh dear god, don’t stop." He slowed the thrusts of his hand, maintaining pressure as he felt her beginning to tighten around his fingers.

Rosalind fought back as much as she could against the deep, ecstatic moan that seemed to resonate throughout her body, from the tips of her limbs and back up through her core seeking release. She bit down harder on her finger but could not contain all of her cries as she came, her entire body shaking and bucking into her brother. Had she retained sufficient grounding in reality as her climax took her over, she would have been grateful to Robert for positioning himself to support her weight, her trembling legs alone were not up to the task as she rode out the waves of sensory explosion consuming her.

Robert slowed his hand motions down to leisurely, gentle strokes as Rosalind eased into a blissful afterglow before withdrawing his fingers entirely. He rose smoothly to his feet and kissed her again, a gesture hungrily reciprocated as Rosalind tasted her own salty-sweet wetness on his lips. She slid a hand between them, running her fingers along his erection. Robert gave a huff of frustration and hurriedly unfastened his belt and trousers. He leaned against Rosalind once again, who gripped his cock and gently guided it between her outer lips, allowing him a few thrusts that stroked agonisingly against her lush, ready cunt. Bracing himself against the wall with one arm Robert nudged her upwards so her tiptoes barely reached the ground. She wrapped one leg around his hips, her arms clinging to his torso and felt her upper body pressed tightly between him and the wall as he finally entered her. He lifted her away from the ground with practiced ease. Though her omnipresent heeled boots might have made her look a little taller, compared to his height and build she was quite petite.

His motions were firm and swift as he fucked her and it was clear this was not to be a prolonged act. Rosalind slid her hands up underneath the back of his shirt, grasping at his exposed skin. She sunk her nails into his back as he nipped his teeth into her shoulder, the sharp frisson of pain bringing her closer to her second climax as Robert’s breathing grew shorter and ragged, his thrusts longer and faster. They came together, as was so often the case when they fucked, wordless gasps and moans between frenzied kisses as their delirious pleasure reached its magnificent peak. Gradually, Robert lowered Rosalind back to the ground where they embraced tenderly, each on wobbly knees, as they allowed their breathing to calm to a regular rhythm, the frenzy of physical sensation ebbing gently away. Their hands and lips each followed subdued, indulgent paths. Rosalind was the first to break their serene quiet.

"We ought to consider returning to the dinner table."

"Can we at least change seats? That should put a swift end to Lady Comstock’s whispering in my ear and keep Fink’s feet away from yours."

"Hm, might be construed as a little queer. We could just sack the whole thing off, claim you took ill and we had to return home."

"I’m afraid that won’t be possible."

"How's that?"

"They’re serving profiteroles for dessert."

"Wait, is that true? Then what on earth are we still doing out here? Profiteroles, Robert!" She kissed him quickly on the cheek, ran her fingertips over her hair to check for no significant disruption, then darted back into the house.


End file.
